The Witches Of The Now Age

The portrait had always terrified me. Not in the obvious way. Not horror-movie terrifying. Not ghosts-jumping-out-of-the-dark terrifying. It was worse than that. It was the kind of fear that sat quietly inside your chest and waited patiently for you to notice it. The kind that smiled at you from across the room. The kind that felt familiar. Every morning before school, I found myself staring at it like it held answers to questions I didn’t even know how to ask. It hung directly across my bedroom wall, massive and ancient, framed in old gold wood that had begun to darken with age. The painting itself looked older than my entire bloodline. Cracks spread across the canvas like tiny rivers, but the faces inside remained disturbingly clear. Too clear. Like time refused to touch them completely. My family called it heritage. I called it creepy. Yet somehow, I couldn’t stop looking at it. Barefoot, dressed halfway in my school uniform, I stood in front of the portrait while soft morning light slipped through my curtains and painted gold across the room. The people inside the painting stared back at me with expressions frozen somewhere between royalty and mourning. Men dressed in dark ceremonial clothing. Women elegant enough to look unreal. Children standing silently beside them. An entire generation trapped inside paint and time. “Okay,” I muttered under my breath, tightening my ponytail. “Why do y’all look like you know secrets?” Silence. Obviously. Still, something about the portrait always made me feel watched. Especially by her. The girl standing near the far edge of the painting. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Beautiful in a way that almost felt dangerous. Every time I looked at her too long, my chest tightened strangely. Because she looked like me. Not exactly. But enough to make me uncomfortable. My friends always joked about it whenever they visited my room. “Girl, your ancestors copied your entire face.” “Strong genes.” “She literally looks like your twin.” I always laughed it off. But secretly? I hated how true it felt. The resemblance wasn’t normal. It felt deeper than family. Like recognition. Like memory. Ding. My entire body stiffened. There it was again. That stupid sound. Soft. Metallic. A tiny bell ringing somewhere far away. Except it wasn’t outside. It was inside my head. I slowly frowned. “No…” Ding. Louder this time. The room suddenly felt colder. I swallowed hard. Every single time I stared at the portrait too long, it happened. The bell. Always the bell. Like something was trying to get my attention. Calling me. Waiting for me to answer. And for some reason, I never stayed long enough to find out what happened next. Because deep down— I knew something about that painting wasn’t normal. My eyes lifted toward the girl again. For one terrifying second, I could’ve sworn her expression changed. Not dramatically. Just slightly. Like she almost recognized me too. “Absolutely not,” I whispered immediately. I grabbed my phone from the bed so fast I nearly dropped it. “Lyra!” My mom’s voice echoed from downstairs. “You’ll be late for school!” Relief hit me instantly. “Coming!” I backed away from the portrait quickly. The strange pressure inside the room eased the moment I stepped toward the door. But before leaving, I looked back one last time. And suddenly— The girl inside the portrait didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. She felt familiar. Too familiar. I shook my head hard. “Okay, yeah. I officially need sleep.” Then I rushed downstairs. The smell of pancakes and coffee wrapped around me immediately, grounding me back into reality. Thank God. Downstairs felt normal. Safe. Unlike my room. Mom stood near the kitchen counter pouring orange juice into a glass while old music played softly in the background. “You were staring at the portrait again, weren’t you?” she asked casually. I dropped dramatically into a chair. “It’s literally the coolest thing in this house.” Mom gave me a look. “That creepy thing?” “It’s aesthetic.” “It looks cursed.” “That’s what makes it aesthetic.” She laughed under her breath while placing breakfast in front of me. Honestly, mornings with my mom were my favorite part of the day. Simple conversations. School gossip. Life. Normal things. Things that made me feel grounded. “So,” she said while sitting down, “how’s graduation rehearsal preparation?” I groaned loudly. “Stressful. Everybody suddenly thinks they’re celebrities.” “You joined the drama section willingly.” “No,” I corrected, “I was emotionally manipulated by my friends.” Mom rolled her eyes. “You used to love acting.” “When I was twelve.” “You still act dramatic now.” “That’s natural talent. Completely different.” She laughed again. I smiled despite myself. This was my life. Normal. Chaotic. Simple. Exactly how I liked it. I didn’t care about spiritual things. Or destiny. Or family legacies. Or ancient history. I just wanted to survive graduation, leave school, become rich somehow, and live my dream life peacefully. That was it. No weird supernatural nonsense included. Even if the portrait upstairs sometimes made my skin crawl. Even if the bell sounded painfully real. Even if something inside me always felt… unsettled. “You zoned out again,” Mom suddenly said. I blinked. “What?” She studied me carefully for a moment. “You’ve been distracted lately.” “I’m fine.” “You sure?” “Just tired.” That wasn’t completely a lie. Lately, I had been feeling strange. Restless. Like my mind kept drifting somewhere I couldn’t reach. But I ignored it. Like I ignored most uncomfortable things in life. “Don’t miss the bus,” Mom finally said. “Yes, ma’am.” I grabbed my bag quickly and headed toward the door. But just before leaving, I glanced upstairs. Toward my room. Toward the portrait. For a split second— I felt something watching me again. I immediately looked away. “Nope.” Then I left the house. Blackthorn Academy looked less like a school and more like a luxury resort built by rich people who hated peace. Huge glass buildings. Perfect gardens. Luxury cars everywhere. Students dressed like fashion influencers instead of teenagers. Everybody there came from money. Old money. Political money. Business money. Celebrity money. Meanwhile, I was just trying to survive without failing math. As soon as I entered the gates, I noticed people staring. Not unusual. People stared at me often. Especially at my eyes. I still didn’t understand why. One guy in junior year once told me my eyes looked “dangerously pretty.” Whatever that meant. Another girl said they looked like “light trapped inside darkness.” Again—whatever that meant. Personally, I thought people were dramatic. “LYRA!” Before I could even react, two bodies slammed into me from behind. I nearly fell. “Oh my God—” “Sorry!” “No, you’re not.” My two best friends burst into laughter immediately. We’d been friends since grade five. At this point, they were basically unpaid therapists. “You’re late,” one of them accused. “I’m literally early.” “You’re spiritually late.” “That doesn’t even make sense.” “It makes emotional sense.” I stared at her. “You need help.” They both laughed louder while dragging me across campus. Soon they started talking excitedly about graduation activities again. Drama performances. Dance rehearsals. Singing competitions. After parties. Rich people nonsense. “You better not embarrass us today,” one of them warned dramatically. I scoffed. “I embarrass myself naturally. No rehearsal needed.” “That’s exactly why we’re scared.” We entered the rehearsal hall together. Students crowded everywhere while teachers organized performance groups near the stage. The atmosphere buzzed with nervous excitement. I instantly regretted coming. “Next.” I froze. One of my friends shoved me forward immediately. “Go!” Traitors. The drama instructor handed me a script. “It’s one of the more difficult roles,” he explained. “Focus on emotional delivery.” I barely listened. I walked slowly toward the center of the stage while students watched from their seats. Normally I would’ve cracked a joke. Or laughed nervously. Or pretended not to care. But the moment I looked down at the script— Something happened. Everything became quiet. Too quiet. The room blurred strangely around me. The lights above the stage suddenly felt hotter against my skin. And then— It felt like I wasn’t myself anymore. I don’t know how else to explain it. One second I was nervous. The next— I felt powerful. Like another version of me had stepped forward from somewhere deep inside my chest. When I started speaking, the words flowed effortlessly. Emotion poured out of me so naturally it scared me. Pain. Love. Grief. Power. Everything felt real. Not acted. Real. The room became completely silent. I could feel hundreds of eyes locked onto me. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. And suddenly— For one horrifying second— I saw flashes of something else. Silver lights. A different room. Ancient walls. A girl wearing dark green silk. Then everything vanished. I finished the performance breathlessly. Silence followed. Complete silence. My stomach twisted nervously. Then suddenly— The entire room erupted into applause. Students stood up cheering. Teachers stared at me in shock. My friends screamed louder than everybody else. But I couldn’t move. Because deep down— I knew something wasn’t right. That performance hadn’t felt normal. It felt like somebody else had borrowed my body for a few minutes. And somewhere deep inside my mind— Very faintly— I heard the bell again. Ding.